


High Violet

by threebears



Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: F/F, Non-Linear Narrative, POV Second Person, Pre-Fall of Overwatch, alcohol cw, i'm ignoring the heck out of canon because OW lore is a mess and i can't be bothered to check myself, literally just making this where i put all of my widowtracer oneshots, oopsicles, pre-talon amelie, they're all in the same timeline tho i guess?
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-07-16
Updated: 2017-03-12
Packaged: 2018-07-24 08:15:20
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 7,573
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7500837
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/threebears/pseuds/threebears
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>You know that a pilot should be better at decision-making. But, you're not a pilot anymore. And you're happy enough to be daft and entirely in love, damn it.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. you're poison in a pretty glass

**Author's Note:**

> oi. so i listen to the national. a lot. a lot a lot. was listening to wasp nest and it gave me all kind of pre-talon widowtracer feels so i decided to write it out and then it just sort of went off the rails and turned into my first college try at writing smut. shamelessly self-indulgent, i am. 
> 
> if you have any feedback, please oh please do let me know. positive/negative/anything in between it is all appreciated.

For what feels like the hundredth time this evening, you’re tugging at your tie. You pray that you’re not in Angela’s line of sight as you loosen it by a centimeter or two. She’s caught and chastised you the last five or six times you’ve tried. Casting about the room, you find her deep in conversation with Winston across the ballroom floor. The simian scientist pushes his glasses further up his nose, stuffed into his custom-made formalwear.

_“Oi, Winston! Nice monkey suit!”_

_“Taxonomically speaking, my friend, I believe it would be called a great ape suit.” Chimes Reinhardt, eyes glittering with mirth._

_“It’s a **scientist** suit, thank you very much.”_

You guffaw into your champagne flute before taking an emptying swig. Another is immediately whisked into your hand, and you’re grateful. These U.N. galas are always so dull until everyone’s good and sloshed. By the looks of things, Jesse and Torbjörn are already there, red-faced and throwing their hands about wildly as they talk about guns, probably. Reinhardt nurses his umpteenth stein of the night but looks sober as a nun as he watches the two carry on. Mei and Ana chat animatedly in a corner. Well, it seems as if Mei was actually doing most of the talking, Ana nodding along in perfect rhythm as she sips a cup of tea.

You smile. It’s nice to have almost everyone in the same room, for a change. Things have been busy, lately. Any time spent at base is usually spent asleep, catching up on much-needed hours. Still, you know that means things are good. Things are getting done. Perhaps things that shouldn’t _need_ doing, in a perfect world, but that’s not the world you live in. At least you’re on the side trying to make it better.

He slips to your side, quiet and soft as a shadow, but you don’t jump. Red, gleaming eyes crinkle in soft amusement as he cocks his head in greeting.

“Enjoying the party, my friend?” Genji asks. You give a non-committal shrug, taking another sip of dry champagne.

“Ya been to one, ya been to ‘em all.” You say airily. He gives a tinny chuckle at that, crossing his arms. He too has pulled out his finery, accented by a silk floral-printed sash around his waist. You quirk an eyebrow, staring at it pointedly.

“Dr. Ziegler and Mei called it charming.” He defends.

“I didn’t say nothin’, Genj.” You reply, trying to keep your expression neutral. In truth, it doesn’t look all that bad. But as the two fastest members of Overwatch, mild ribbing was built into the relationship. The cyborg shakes his head, even with the lower half of his face obscured, you hear the smile in his exasperated sigh.

“We cannot all be as permanently festive as you, I suppose.” He chuckles, tapping the frame of her glowing chronal accelerator with a knuckle.

“I can’t tell ya ‘ow tough it was to find someone to make a suit that wouldn’t stifle this baby.” You say, puffing your chest out in pride. “Least I’m not the only one who ‘ad to look for a patient tailor.”

You both glance over at Winston, tufts of fur poking out of his navy blue suit, and at least have the good sense to not laugh too loud. Once the giggles subside, Genji excuses himself. He tells you that Jack is hoping to introduce him to some vocal anti-omnic advocates as a symbol of unity or something. You don’t know if it’s the brightest idea, but you’ve all been doing good work. Maybe there’s a foothold to be found. Better to open that door now when all the important folks are a little boozy.

Speaking of, you notice the pleasant warmth in your stomach has spread to your limbs. You’ve cultivated the softest of buzzes and you finally decide that you’re having a nice enough time. Although it could be better.

She’s not here yet. And at this point, if she _does_ show up, it will be well past fashionably late. You hope, in spite of yourself. These things are always better when she’s around; offering a private ochre glance across the room, a warm olive-toned hand on your forearm. Sometimes, when everyone is blitzed past the point of raising an eyebrow, you’ll take to the dance floor to have an excuse to touch, trade longing whispers, simply have a moment to yourselves. Even in a room so crowded with watching eyes. Nobody thinks anything of the two of you when you dance.

In the field, you’ve made yourselves into something of a dream team; you zoom through battle, distracting and taunting while she lines up the shot. You complement each other. The world sees a pair of fast friends, working together with legendary efficiency. Of course, the tabloids will spread rumors of something more sordid than teamwork and friendship. Grainy images of the two of you tangled together in an alley, on a distant rooftop. Too low-resolution to tell, really, you always say with a wink. She, for her part, always scoffs and comments that the manipulation on these images is too laughable to be taken seriously.

Still, you never say no. They all assume that’s what you mean. It eases your conscience, that you don’t have to lie outright. That you don’t have to deny your affair with the wife of another agent. Your best friend.

Another glass of champagne is being pushed into your hand, but you wave it away as politely as you can. Something stronger, you request. Make it a surprise.

You lean against a rather ostentatious pillar, arms folded over the glowing and humming blue light affixed to your chest. You look around the room for a conversation to thrust yourself into once your drink arrives. Conversation will alleviate the thinking. Conversation and liquor. There’s plenty of both to be found around here.

Your drink arrives and you take a whiff to check its contents. Good Irish whisky, one ice cube. You wonder how the bartender could’ve known and look over to raise the lowball in thanks, when your questions are suddenly answered.

You wonder when your mouth will stop drying out when you see her. It’s been long enough now that you should be able to hold it together just a little bit. But bloody hell, _look_ at her.

She’s wearing the little black dress she _knows_ drives you insane. Dizzyingly high heels do nothing to make those shapely, mile-long olive legs any less torturous. Her lips are painted the deep red that she favors when she intends to leave marks, and her obsidian hair is down, thrown casually over a bare shoulder. You shiver.

She’s feeling particularly lethal tonight.

You slip a sweating hand into your pocket, taking a sip and relishing the burn as she approaches. Once she’s at your side, she swirls her wine (a dry red Bordeaux if you know her at all), then takes a slight sip.

“You’ve got a lot of catchin’ up to do, love.” You say, not daring to look at her just yet. She’s wearing your favorite perfume, because of _course_ she is.

“It appears so.” She purrs in her molten French accent. “I’ll give it an hour before Jack is ordering rounds of tequila for everyone.”

You look around, finding your greying commander regaling a group of riveted onlookers with a story, probably about Genji. Jack’s got a firm grip on the cyborg’s shoulder, occasionally jostling him for emphasis. It’s a good thing helmets can’t blush, you think.

“He’s tellin’ stories. Loudly. I’ll give it ‘alf an hour.” You say. She makes a thoughtful sound in the back of her throat.

“Care to bet on it, _mon coeur_?”

“Wee.” You say mildly, clinking your drink to hers without looking. “What’re we bettin’ this time?”

“Who’s on top tonight?”

Whisky does not feel great coming out of your nose. Wiping it away with the back of your hand, you finally turn to look at her. She laughs, her golden eyes twinkling with humor and more than a little endearment. How she thinks this could be cute, you’ve no idea.

“Ya think _now’s_ the time to be figurin’ that out?” You ask, only then realizing how hot your face is. Red lips curl into a smirk and she gestures about the grand ballroom.

“Does it appear as if anyone is listening?” She asks, though you already know the answer. Everyone is far too involved with their own conversations to even notice how close the two of you are standing.

Everyone has always been far too busy to notice the two of you. Perhaps that’s why your romance has not come even remotely close to being sniffed out yet. You’re not supposed to be focusing on each other, only your job. To consider that any member of Overwatch would take fraternizing to such a level has not even occurred to anyone. Your stomach curdles. When you were younger, you never imagined that falling in love could make you a failure.

A gentle hand on the small of your back shakes you from your thoughts, and you look up into her eyes. She gazes at you sympathetically, sadly. She’s interrupted this particular type of self-flagellation countless times, apparently to the point of being able to read your mind when it’s happening. You sigh, leaning back into the affirming touch incrementally.

“Sorry.” You croak out. She shakes her head, rubbing small circles with her thumb.

“I am as well, _chérie_.” She whispers somberly, then smiles anew. “It is so terribly stuffy in here, _non_? And I am craving a cigarette.”

You offer your arm, ever the gentleman.

“Saw some lovely gardens off’a the east entrance on my way in.” You say as she rests a hand in the crook of your elbow. “Sure they wouldn’t mind if we took a quick walk around.”

Gilded irises flicker down at you and you beg the fluttering in your stomach to just give it a rest for _once_.

“I’m sure they wouldn’t.” She agrees, and you saunter out of the ballroom with nary a glance back.

You walk together in comfortable silence. Security snaps to attention as you pass by, the glow of your chest the only clearance you need. You wonder what this looks like to them, two respected and highly-decorated agents prowling through the halls arm-in-arm, far away from where they ought to be. Perhaps you’re being paranoid.

A couple turns and straightaways later and you’ve come to a towering pair of double-doors that slide open automatically as you approach. The night air is cool as it licks over your cheeks, and wow it really _had_ been stuffy in there. She glances about to confirm that you are well and truly alone before she slides a smooth palm down your forearm to tangle her fingers about yours. Your calloused fingertips kiss her own, equally weathered, as you amble down the cobblestone path. You think to ask where Gérard is tonight, but think better of it. If she’s being this forward, then he’s far and away. It’s kinder to both of you to keep his name off your lips, to not shatter this careful intimacy that you’ve both spent far too much time cultivating.

To not remind both of you that your love is a mistake.

You take an ample swig of whisky as you arrive at a fountain, burbling and splashing your nose with a fine mist carried by the sleepy breeze. She sits on the edge of the fountain, tugging at your hand to pull you down beside her. You acquiesce with a smile, setting your drink down beside you with a faint scrape of glass on granite. Your knees graze hers, and you can feel the heat rolling off of her through your dress trousers. A wayward strand of raven hair tickles your nose as it flutters on a gust. You wrinkle your nose, batting at it. She laughs, and it becomes harder to remember why there’s a knot of guilt sitting heavy in your stomach. She pulls out a copper rectangle, embossed with floral patterns, and opens it. She offers you a cigarette as she slides one between her teeth. Normally, you’d chastise her. But her perfume hangs thick in the air and you’re still abuzz with liquor and nerves, so you accept. It’s a habit you kicked a while ago, but you’ve never been known to have much self-restraint.

You lean in close to light your cigarette off the smoldering cherry of hers, your breath mingling with smoke. Leaning back, you take an indulgent drag. Her thumb skims idly over your knuckles as you billow a plume of smoke into the chilled summer evening.

“I hear we’re both being assigned to Gibraltar in two weeks.” She says, resting her chin on the heel of her hand. Her regal nose brushes the filter of the cigarette dangling from her fingers. You lean bodily against her, and she allows you to tuck your head in the crux of her shoulder and neck.

“Didn’t know you were goin’ too.” You say, lifting your drink and swirling it. The ice cube is but a lonely sliver now, clinking against the glass faintly. “Winston’s been naggin’ me for a tune-up. Figured Jack jus’ wanted me to stay and make sure the ol’ lug doesn’t fall off ‘is rocker. Or ‘is pile of tires, more likely.”

“To be fair, you drive our dear scientist to his wits’ end.” She says, though not unkindly. You nudge her knee playfully.

“Why’re you going?” You ask. “Not that I’m compainin’.”

You feel her, more than hear, draw in a deep breath.

“We have a large recruitment base in the Mediterranean and northern Africa that fits my… realm of expertise. I am to vet potential candidates at the Watchpoint.” She says. You lift your head at that, studying her profile. It is cast in moonlight. She is beautiful.

“Isn’t that Ana’s job?”

She nods. “ _Oui_. There is no small amount of implication that she’s sending me in her stead.”

You raise your eyebrows. “She’s groomin’ you to take over for her.”

Your lover dips her chin in assent. She should look happy. Ana Amari is Jack’s right hand. That she is being considered to take over the position is nothing short of astounding. But her brow is creased. The thumb skimming over your knuckles is motionless, resting in the divot between your middle and index finger.

“You don’t look ‘appy about that.” You say, worried. She sighs, shaking her head.

“I’m not quite sure that I am worthy of such an honor.” She says, her accent melting around her words. “A leader needs to be an example for others, _non_? Dedicated, never self-serving, disciplined. And I…” She trails off, not looking at you. Your heart beats in your throat as you wait for her to finish.

Because of you, she doubts.

Sorrow, deep and hungry, nips at your gut. Your eyes sting hotly. You hate yourself, suddenly. Constantly wallowing over the invisible stain on your honor, scarcely throwing heed to what it might imply for the woman you love. And _God_ , do you love her.

“Amélie.” You whisper her name, beg her to look at you. She does, eyes like broken glass fixing upon you with fear and all the love you feel pulsing through your every inch. Words catch in your throat. The cigarette, long forgotten, has burnt to a nub and stings your fingers. You drop it and let go of her hand, instead cradling her slim face between your palms. Her lips part and you don’t dare look at them.

“Say the word, and I’ll back off.” You manage to stammer out. “You don’t ‘ave to be ashamed anymore, love. I won’t force it, won’t ask ya to keep me around. You’ve got a whole future waitin’ for ya. I _can’t_ be the one to muck it up.”

You have given her an out. She can take it. You won’t blame her. You’ll rage and wail and break, but you won’t blame her. All this time, she’s had more riding on it than you ever did. You’re ashamed it’s taken you so long to realize it.

_Please, love. Go. If you don’t do it now, I can’t promise that I’ll ever offer again._

Your hands are trembling and you can’t help it but she’s looking at you with that deep, deep sadness and you have to think that this is the end. Your lungs are tight, as if they’re trying to hold every last vestige of her breath, her scent. You’d hold your breath until you suffocated. Your eyes flicker over her face, trying to commit all of it to memory. Those full lips, so pristinely red under the moon, parted over alabaster teeth. Olive-hued skin, smoother than should be possible, flushing with proximity. Thick black hair, spilling through your fingertips. Eyes. Eyes that put every gold ingot fought over in the history of the whole damn _world_ to shame.

To have called her yours, even once, is more privilege than you have ever deserved.

She is kissing you, then. Not the wistful kiss of parting lovers. No, this is a fuck-me-please kiss. And not a fuck-me-one-last-time kiss, either. You’ve had those, before. Enough to know what they feel like. There is no desperation in the way her lips slide over yours, only possession.

This is a you’re-not-fucking-going-anywhere kiss.

You then remember how kissing works, and that you’re supposed to do it back. You slide a hand around the back of her head, drawing her closer. The other slides down to her shoulder, muscled and lithe. You sigh against her lips, and they part eagerly. Her tongue, warm and tasting heavily of smoke and that damn dry wine she favors so much, slides against yours. It draws you in. She grabs inelegantly at your tie, grasping the fabric and tugging you closer still. Sometimes you forget that she’s stronger than you, and the reminder sends a shiver up your spine. Teeth nip urgently at your bottom lip and you can’t help the sound that rises in the back of your throat. It seems to spur her on, her lips and tongue moving frantically in an effort to claim you.

_Ah, fuck it._

In one carefully practiced motion, you slip one hand around the back of her knee and swing it around your hips. She’s always so quick on the uptake, shifting her weight to her other knee to keep her balance. She straddles you now, arms wrapping tight around your neck. Your back is to the fountain. You might fall in. You don’t care. You don’t think she does, either. If you go down, then you go down, and you’re going down together.

With a gasp and no small amount of effort, you pull your lips from hers, skirting them to the fine angle of her jaw. You smirk as a gentle nip at her earlobe elicits an airy groan and a sharp exhale through flared nostrils. You rake your nails gently down her exposed back and are freshly reminded of why you _fuckin’ love her in this dress so much_. She arches into you, agonizingly full breasts pressing airtight just above your own and shudders as you run your tongue, feather light, over the shell of her ear. Her hips begin to move, grinding desperately against you. You curse, hands scrambling to grip them, white knuckled. You guide them in purposeful, slow strokes, pressing your nose against her pulse point as you catch your breath.

“We doin’ this here then, love?” You manage as her movement grows far more deliberate. You can feel the hem of her dress starting to brush against your wrists, riding up indecently high with her exertions. Slim fingers creep up your neck, tangling in the hair at the back of your head. She pulls firmly, tilting your face back so she can look you firmly in the eye. You feel all the heat in your body sink directly between your legs when you realize her eyes have turned almost entirely black, ringed in gold at the edges. It’s like staring into an eclipse.

“I promise you, _mon coeur_. _This_ is but the first of many, tonight.”

You shudder bodily. That’s a yes, then.

You rub hard circles on the insides of her hips and she bucks forward. It nearly knocks you into the fountain, but you blink forward, just a hair, and you’re righted again. She is laughing above you, breathless.

“ _Désolé_ , sweet thing. You know how sensitive I am there.” She says, whimpering as your teeth sink into the junction of her neck and shoulder. You run your tongue, soothing, over the reddening spot you’ve left. She always carries cover-up, thank God.

“Why else d’you think I’m doin’ it?” You say, and she swats the back of your head lightly.

“Cheeky.” She scolds in that honeyed accent of hers. You aim only to please, sliding your hands around the backs of her well-muscled thighs to lightly grip her only-slightly-less-muscular ass. You bump her chin playfully with your nose as you squeeze. She doesn’t dare part her lips, fighting to muffle the moan that tears from her throat.

“Lena, I _swear_.” She hisses, digging her nails into your shoulder to emphasize her point. You’re tempted to tease her just a bit longer, but it’s teetering on too long since you two made yourselves scarce from the party and you’ll have more than enough time later.

You spare a moment to look at her. Study this beautiful, impossible woman that has risked far too much to be with you. You, a chicken-legged, cockney-mouthed failed science experiment of a human being. And here she is, heavy lidded and panting your name like a prayer. She is ethereal in the light of the accelerator, cast in blue. Yet she remains the most beautiful creature you have ever seen. Your trembling fingers move slow up the inside of her thigh, reveling in the smooth expanse of skin. Your chronal accelerator stutters as you brush the pads of your fingers over damp lace, heat radiating violently just beneath.

“ _Amélie_.” You sigh, eyelids fluttering as you shift the obstructive fabric to the side. She keens as your fingers dance idly over slick folds, she lifts her hands to cup your face. Gentle, loving, _commanding_. You give a breadth of a nod before you slip a finger inside. You bite down on a groan as her slick heat wraps around it. As much as you would love to drag this out, twisting and curling a single digit inside her until she’s begging for more and deeper, your time is not infinite. It never is.

So you slide in another finger. Then a third. She bucks helplessly astride your lap, muddied French spilling from her shining lips. You press your hips upward in time with each downward grind, pushing as deep as you can. Your nails dig into her ass, her dress long having ridden past it, desperate for purchase. Her fingertips alternate between pressing hard against your temples and smoothing over your hair.

You can tell when she’s getting there long before she does. Her twitching brow is the first sign, then it’s the compulsive lip-licking. Her needy, frantic hips move slower. They take you deeper, more deliberate. You curl your fingers and press the pad of your thumb tight against her clit, rolling in tandem with the mill of her hips. A thin sheen of sweat has settled over both of you as you rock against each other, eyes locked and barely blinking.

She shudders around you, drawing you impossibly deeper still, and grits her teeth. Her fingers tighten in your hair and it might hurt, but fuck if you can even feel it. Your entire body is humming, a thousand wasps buzzing and setting your nerves aflame. You love it. You have never loved anything more. Nothing more than _her_.

You press your lips to the corner of her mouth as she finally comes undone. You feel her clamp down, wet heat trickling down your knuckles and over the back of your trembling hand. Normally deft fingers grasp clumsily at the back of your neck, your shoulder blades as she sobs your name against your lips. Over and over again, keeping rhythm with the pulsing deep between her thighs. You offer one last deep thrust and she arches into it, pressing her forehead to yours with wide eyes. A shuddering moan spills from her lips as she rides out the last waves. You keep your hand still, letting her set the pace. She slumps against you, rests her head on your shoulder. You feel her breath coming in hot puffs against your neck as she indulges a couple more lazy rolls over your fingers and finally stills.

You gently uncurl each finger, one by one. She whimpers, and you lay a gentle kiss over her temple as you withdraw yourself. She is tense, but only for a moment before melting wholly against you. She murmurs things she has yet to teach you in French, one hand curling just above the glow on your chest. You smooth her dress down as far as you can and then curl a hand over hers.

“Amélie…” You begin, nuzzling into the top of her head softly. You smell her shampoo, her perfume, her sweat all irreparably wound about each other and catalogue each one. If this night is all you have left, then you won’t waste a moment of it.

“Lena. Shut up.” She says, muffled against your skin. You stiffen, pulling away. She lifts her chin to fix you with a stern glare.

“You are _everything_ to me.” She says. Golden eyes, though hazy with pleasure, are sharp. “We spend our everyday railing against the probability that a bullet will find our hearts, yet the only thing I can think to do with mine is give it to you. So shut up. We will go back to the ballroom, we will go back to my hotel room together, we will fuck, we will make love until the sun finds us. And we’ll do it some more. We will riot together, you and me. So please, _mon petit chou_. Do shut up.”

You smile, then. Laughter bubbles up from deep inside you and you bury your face in her hair, shoulders quaking. You feel her begin to do the same, wrapping her arms around you and soon you’re doubled over each other, giggling over the absurdity of your love. How stupid you both are. How tragically besotted. How cunting head-over-heels you are.

How fuckin’ lucky, despite it all.

You kiss her once more, God knows how much longer this party could last. She is smiling against your lips whispering sweet, sometimes insulting, nothings as you pull yourselves up with trembling knees. She licks her drying wetness off your fingers with a wink once you part, then saunters toward the doors. She pulls out her concealer kit, and you catch her reflection in the hand mirror. Those eyes burn with promise.

You gather up your forgotten glassware, wondering when her wine glass had been kicked over and how you hadn’t even noticed. Sheepishly, you slug the last of your watery whisky, and follow in your lover’s wake.

When you make it back to the ballroom, you are relieved to see everyone right where you left them. Everyone except Jack, who has bellied up to the bar. He’s doing a headcount.

Oh yes. Please, let it be.

You bob up and down with excitement, checking your watch. Seventeen minutes.

You look up at her. She looks down at you. Absolute daggers.

You nudge her gently in the ribs with your elbow.

“Aw, love. Cheer up. Thought you said ‘til the sun came up, yeah?” You tease through a grin. Her lips curl up, absolutely predatory. Lethal. It’s perfect.

“ _Oui, mon coeur_. And then some.”

What can you say, really? The woman keeps her promises.


	2. one time, you were a glowing young ruffian

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> THERE'S MORE. I CAN'T STOP MYSELF.
> 
> I keep listening to The National and thinking of WidowTracer oneshot idea things so that's just what this is Going To Be from now on.
> 
> Ya'll are great, hope you enjoy/

You don’t know how you got here. You can’t fathom why.

The handlers that Overwatch sent to escort you from London to a clandestine base in the Swiss Alps have told you, times beyond counting, that you were a prime candidate for newly-instituted airborne division. And that they can’t say anything more than that, you will be briefed when we land, please there is no need to fidget so much.

You acquiesce with a nervous smile for about five minutes and then your knee is back to jackhammering at the underside of your tray table.

It isn’t that you’re not a good pilot. You’re a bloody great pilot. Best in your class the year you graduated. But still. This is _Overwatch_. It’d be one thing for you to enter the RAF. You’d have been a cut above there, climbed the ranks quickly, garnered respect and admiration, and been a _damn_ great pilot. But Overwatch is an international task force. You’re going to be surrounded by only the best of the best, and you can only rationalize yourself as the best of the okay-est.

You’re the youngest recruit in their history, and that’s the real kick in the head.

You gnaw at the inside of your cheek as the plane circles the mountains below, preparing to ascend. Your fingers tap a sharp, imprecise tattoo against your thigh, then pick at a fraying rip in your trousers. What are the odds that you won’t make the cut, you wonder. Probably not high. An organization like this doesn’t have tryouts. They’ve been keeping an eye on you for a while. You have been trying to not let _that_ bother you too much.

The man sitting next to you, Bayless, offers you a bottle of water. You take it with a stuttering smile and shivering hands. You drain about half the bottle and rub the back of your hand over your lips. You consider staring out the window, taking in the sweeping peaks and valleys of the mythically beautiful mountains beneath you. But when you do, you see a nexus of light in one valley, blinking and twinkling in defiance against the purple dusk. You feel that familiar churn in your gut again.

You slide the window shut and stare at the crinkling plastic bottle in your fist. You haven’t told Mum what you’re doing. None of your mates from the RAF or back home know where you’ve gone. For the first time in your bare two decades, you feel alone and not in the brave, freeing way you feel when you’re cutting through the sky. You hope you aren’t a disappointment. You hope Overwatch doesn’t disappoint _you_.

When you land, you are quickly given your well-loved Union Jack duffel bag and ushered through a series of checkpoints. They all involve a degree of poking and prodding that is essentially procedural to you at this point. So you bear your way through it without complaint and give your thanks to the security team. It has _never_ hurt to be cozy with base security. From there, Bayless shows up in what basically amounts to a tricked-out golf cart. The familiar, kind of friendly face is welcome as you zip across the silent airfields toward the main hangar, where the promise of “orientation” looms.

The atmosphere in the hangar is lax when you push through the small side door. About a dozen men and women, all leaning on their luggage, have gathered in the largest open space. You could give a toss about them, though. You’re drowning in the sight of what glorious crafts surround you. Some models are familiar, but better maintained than any you’ve ever seen. Or flown, for that matter. Others are entirely foreign. All are sleek and fill you with a promising ache in your chest.

One in particular catches your eye. It is a curious, flat little thing. It is gleaming chrome and festooned with oranges and blues, with the word “Slipstream” painted across the port side wing. What you can’t figure out is how exactly it’s supposed to _fly_. There is no room for an industry-standard engine in the bird. You rub your chin and move to take a closer look, when someone whistles shrilly. You turn to see a handful of Overwatch soldiers, decked in the Slipstream’s blue, filing through the door you came through a moment before. One of the officers, a wiry man holding a clipboard, tells you all to gather in a line shoulder-to-shoulder. The lot of you are adjusting yourselves minorly, flattening cowlicks and straightening jackets, when he enters the hangar.

You can’t help but flinch under the scrutiny. Commander Jack Morrison does not pose a timid figure. Hawkish blue eyes flick over each recruit, head to toe. When he gets to you, you meet his gaze because that is proper decorum, but he unsettles you in a way that no other military-type has. And you’ve spent plenty of time around some real pieces of work.

Still, you puff your chest out in defiance of yourself and throw the crispest salute you’ve ever performed. You hope that the visor he wears over one eye isn’t checking your vitals, because your heart feels like it could gallop out of your chest. And that would be a right fucking embarrassment.

You think you catch a smile tugging at his lips as he turns to inspect the gangly bloke standing to your right, but you suppose that it could also be wishful thinking.

After a brief lecture on where you are and are under no circumstances _not_ allowed to go, as well as temporary bunk assignments, you are dismissed. You scoop up your duffel and zip up your dusty-looking bomber as you follow the herd of fresh blood through the hangar. You try to keep your focus ahead, away from the spectacular crafts flanking you on either side. Right now, you just want a hot cuppa and some sleep. You don’t think you need any more excitement today.

Besides, you figure you’re going to be here for a while.

As you continue through the hangar, you all begin to talk amongst yourselves. The man standing next to you introduces himself, and a woman with a jet-black bob of hair chimes in as well. Their stories are more or less the same as yours, just switch Great Britain for Canada and Spain, respectively. Still, they seem much more composed than you. Maybe it’s because they’re older. They’re definitely leagues more experienced than you. You are content to fall half a pace behind and simply listen to them talk as your troupe passes through the gaping maw of the hangar doors.

It’s flurrying now, and you tilt your chin skyward. The flakes dance, dizzyingly fast, but sharp in the glare of the floodlights hanging from the roof of the hangar. You smile. It’ll be a while yet before you’re airborne again, yet the thought flashes warmth through your cheeks. Now that you know what it feels like up there, there’s just no other way for you to live.

The sudden whirring falsetto of a helicarrier and a murmur rippling from the front of your group catches your attention. You lean on the tips of your toes, to see what all the fuss is about, but you’re still shorter than most like that. With a soft huff, you slip your hands into your pockets.

“It’s really them.” The Canadian bloke says, hushed. The Spanish woman throws an incredulous glance back at you.

“Of course it’s them. You didn’t think we’d see Overwatch agents at Overwatch _Headquarters_?” She says wryly. Your eyebrows lift. Meeting Strike-Commander Morrison had been overwhelming in its own right, and you’re curious to see what the agents under his command are like. If they’re all like him, you fear dearly for your self-esteem.

“Well, _yeah_. But I didn’t think we’d see this _many_.”

“Must be coming back from a big mission.”

Finally, there is a break in your flock. And there they are.

All the posters and footage and countless other iterations truly did no justice to the real thing. These are real, bona fide heroes. The fact that Reinhardt, a mammoth of a man in literal shining, knight’s armor towers over them certainly helps the case, and you cannot tear your eyes away. You count them, recognizing almost all of them. Winston is undeniably the easiest to identify. It’s probably hard to keep a low profile as a genetically modified, bespectacled gorilla. He smiles awkwardly at the band of gawkers and lumbers away, an enormous cannon slung easily over his shoulder. Next, you spot Mercy. You’ve always had a weak spot for a pretty lady with an accent. That she looks like an angel, entirely without exaggeration, doesn’t make your legs feel any more stable. You can’t seem to manage prying your eyes from the legendary medic, who glides on hard-light wings toward Winston’s lumbering shape. Lovely thing it is to watch her leave. You consider the merits of having a very mild, not-at-all orchestrated accident. Or brushing up on your German.

A light jab at your ribs rudely drags you from chewing on the thought further. You narrow your eyes at the Canadian bloke. He doesn’t even have the sense to look apologetic, simply favoring as subtle a gesture as he can make toward the still-open door of the helicarrier. You frown and shake your head, having no idea what he’s on about. He sighs and leans down.

“They have to be Blackwatch.” He says, almost conspiratorially. You feel your brow knit, still not quite grasping what the big deal is. Before you can ask, the Spanish girl interjects.

“They’re covert ops, I think. Nobody really sees them. A lot of people think they’re a myth.”

You take another look, now skeptical. A cowboy, complete with a serape and hat, doesn’t really say “subtlety” to you. It sort of screams it, but that’s not being very subtle at all. The cowboy champs on a smoldering cigar, tipping his hat at your gaggle with a wry smile and a gleaming prosthetic hand. Someone at the back of the crowd shouts “howdy”, and you’re halfway through wincing when the outlandishly-dressed man tosses his head back to laugh. You should have figured he doesn’t take himself too seriously.

His companions, however, seem entirely believable. They’re dressed in dark colors and largely stony faced. A man with a black cap and neatly-trimmed goatee is deep in conversation with a middle-aged woman, a dark braid shot through with gray spilling from her drawn hood. The man doesn’t even spare a glance in your direction. He seems right pissed. The woman, however, lifts her eyes and scans the lot of you. Her expression is inscrutable, but something in your gut tells you that she’s sizing things up. There is something very keen about her, and you vow that if she _has_ a good side then you are going to get and stay firmly on it.

The rest of their number seems largely unremarkable, although you wonder if that’s an apt assumption. This is, apparently, the shadowy secret division of an international task force made up largely by super heroes. Still, they don’t pack quite the same punch as a giant knight, talking gorilla, literal angel, or cowboy. Your fellow recruits seem to share the sentiment and resume ambling toward the barracks en masse through the flurries. You begin to follow, flipping the collar of your jacket up, attempting to keep the fat snowflakes from falling and melting on your already-chilly neck. You think, for a moment, that frostbite may be a compelling enough reason to seek out the medic and not an entirely dishonest one. Or maybe you’d get yourself a scarf. Maybe she fancies roguish, Red Baron types.

You’re almost too preoccupied by your spitball thoughts of courting the most fawned-over woman in the world to notice the silhouette stepping from the aircraft. It’s such a lithe, subtle thing that you’re surprised your eyes catch it at all. You fully intend to keep walking, to sneak a peek at this Johnny-Come-Lately from the corner of your eye as not to make an ass of yourself by standing and leering.

Many of your plans have failed spectacularly, but none quite so much as this.

Empirically, she is beautiful. The tight cling of the red and black cat suit on her body leaves no room to doubt it. Her legs are finely shaped and strong-seeming and sod it all, they are long, long, _long_. Her hips are graciously ample, giving easy way to a slim waist. Your eyes drag upwards, but you speed past her chest because you know that you’re gawking already and you know you already look a right git, but you don’t want to be a _pervy_ one. Like it would make a difference, anyway. Like your staring isn’t already weird and off-putting enough. You swallow heavily and admire the proud set of her shoulders. She makes perfect posture look natural and entirely graceful. A braid of thick hair, a night black you’d never think could be possible, spills over one of those statuesque shoulders. The collar of the cat suit wraps around her neck, but you can still see the long column of her throat beneath.

Your gaze pauses there, both appreciative and wholly terrified to look upon her face. She’s seen you by now. The crowd you could have hidden behind is rapidly falling out of earshot and she hasn’t yet budged an inch from the helicarrier’s doorway. It’s just the two of you out here now, and you’re rooted to the spot, a deer caught in headlights. But you’re a _pilot_ , damn it. Nerve is the _one_ thing you can lay claim to, above all else. Stupid, dangerous, devil-may-care _nerve_. So you steel yourself with a shuddering inhale, and look up.

You realize, then, why you’d flunked most of the prose classes you were roped into throughout your academic career. You’re shit at metaphors. You’re bad at finding the right words for the right things, even when you’re just thinking them to yourself. Because this is not a deer caught in headlights at all. You are a deer caught in the sights of a mighty, fierce jungle cat.

And it’s _not_ just a metaphor, you realize as your breath steadily billows larger puffs of steam into the air. Her eyes are _actually_ the same gold you remember seeing on a tiger at the zoo, back when you were able to clamber atop your mum’s shoulders. She’s staring right back at you, same as that tiger had. But you remember seeing a storm behind the big cat’s eyes. Hers swim with something that sends a shiver rattling up your spine.

She looks just as stunned stupid as you _feel_. Her full, pouty lips hang open just so. A rosy flush that is too severe, even for this temperature, spreads across her olive cheeks. Those piercing ochre eyes are blown wide, burning yours with their intensity. You think to look away, but you just _can’t_. Not yet. Something fierce and primal and squealing tells you to stay right where you are. If you turn and flee, she’ll pounce. But if you stay right here, she still might.

And you think you would really love it if she did.

The standoff snaps, lancing and sudden, when you hear your name being called off in the distance. You may have physically flinched at the intrusion, which feels more like a slap than a distant shout. Inhaling sharply, you glance toward where your new companions are huddled in front of a long, squat building that looks more like a warehouse than anything else. You reckon those are the barracks. You hiss a handful of the nastiest words you know under your breath, daring to look at her one last time.

She’s watching you, still. Her lips have shut, but her eyes are still wide. She looks nearly frantic, and you can’t understand it. Your pulse thumps wild and stupid and you can feel it in your ears. You so badly want to tell her your name. To ask hers. To stand out here in the tumbling snowfall, wordless and puzzled and entirely taken in. 

Instead you turn and hike your collar up even more. You walk toward the barracks, eyes fixed sharply ahead.

 

You’ve got nerve. You can fly the fastest plane in Europe into a dead drop and pull out and up, back toward the sky like you’d learned to do it before you could walk. That’s why you’re here. Overwatch needs _that_ nerve. Not the kind that got you into flats and pants back home. But this is bigger than that, you think. Or maybe it's not. Maybe you're just being the same soggy idiot whose heart got broken too often, too easily. Either way, you decide that this can't matter.

You’re going to put this out of your mind. You _have_ to. And you are _going_ to. 

So when you are lying awake in your bunk that night, you tell yourself the reason you can’t think of anything but gold is because of Mercy’s hair. If you let your mind race hard enough, fast enough, you may even believe it for a moment. You try to lose it in the blur.


End file.
